Tears, Secrets, and a Razor Blade.

I woke up the next morning praying everything was a dream. That Frank never came in my house. That he never saw my scars. That I never spilled my guts to him. And definitely not that I crawled on his lap, whilst hugging, and wrapped my legs around him. I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t do those kind of things. I’ve never even had my first kiss, and in one moment of vulnerability, I could be known as a whore. I am not that kind of girl. It was obviously a dream. It had to be. I do not do those kinds of things, ever. It was just some kind of horrible nightmare. He wasn’t going to come over today. He wasn’t going to ask me about my scars. None of that was going to happen, because it was just a dream. It was also the best dream I ever had. In this dream, everything was perfect. I was safe, protected. Understood. He made me feel like I had no flaw. Like there was nothing wrong with me. Which is another reason it had to be a dream. I am far from being ‘okay’. I am fat, ugly, a nobody. I am totally and utterly worthless. Useless. And alone. After I stopped thinking about what had happened- I mean the dream- I started thinking about my imperfections. Aboutme. I felt this unbelievable black hole of despair and depression. Just like every other week, I was having an existential crisis. Questioning everything and anything that is or has existed. Questioning my existence. Why was I even alive? I felt the tears forming on my waterline, and I reached for my blade. I ripped the covers off, looking at my thighs. Wait a second. I was wearing shorts. Mint green and white pin stripes shorts. Last night really happened. It was for real. Really real. He probably thinks I’m a slut, now. He knows that I cut.

I remember now that not only had he seen my scars, but he saw the words. He read them. Out loud. I was screwed. Now, more than ever, I needed the horrible release of seeing my blood flow. I usually cut for a reason. None of the cuts are actually that deep. Just enough to break skin, to bleed, to leave a mark. I had somewhat convinced myself that if one day, if I somehow got better, they would heal up and go away, like wiping off dry erase marks from the board. But there is one word, one that means so much and is cut so deep, that I don’t think it will ever go away. ‘Help’. Of the few words I had on myself, they had so many meanings. Most of them obvious. ‘Alone’, ‘Why’, ‘Fat’, and ‘Ugly’ are pretty self-explanatory. Or, at least they only have one meaning. ‘Why’ might be confusing to other people, but it’s not like I planned for anyone else to see these. Pretty much what I think about a lot is “Why me?”. I think that was the first time I had cut myself. I hadn’t really planned spelling out‘Why’, but the idea of criss-crossing the cuts seemed so…appealing? I don’t know.

I have two other words on me. That would be ‘Help’ and 'Scream’. They have several meanings. A scream for help. A scream of depression and anger. Because no one hears me. And ‘Help’… Help me. Help me stop. Help me be happy. Help me be okay again. Please, someone just help me.

•Frank’s P.O.V•

I got up decently early today, which is rare. I’m not really sure what’s going to happen today. I mean, with Char. I’m wondering if she even remembers last night, or if it’s all just a shaky blur, like it is to me. I don’t remember much from last night. I remember her horribly cut up thighs and the few cuts on her left wrist. I remember the words. ‘Help’ especially. It stood out far from the rest. Most of the other ones looked forgotten, not cut in awhile. They didn’t look to be deep. Except one of them. The word I was most interested in, ‘Help’. And now, that’s all I want to do. For her to have that word in there, it gives me a strange sense of hope. Because, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she can be helped. A small little piece of hope that says she has a chance to get better. Who knows, maybe she isn’t that far along in the empty swirling vortex that is depression.

I walk over to my closet, looking for something nice to wear. I don’t want to just look like I rolled out of bed. I want to look like I care, cause I really do. I settle for a tight, long sleeved black shirt and and white collared over shirt with a slim, red tie. I get regular skinny jeans and pop on my gray chucks. I check the clock.11:30 Is that too early to go over? I guess not. I grabbed my keys off the counter and rushed out into the driveway. I was going a little faster than usual. I’m not really sure how I feel right now. I have a feeling of excitement, but it’s not really happiness. I would say pity, but that doesn’t seem to fit it. Sympathy and empathy, I guess. It’s jut that… it hurts to know how she feels. Yeah, there are kids who are bullied, who have abusive family, and so many things else. But, through it all, she acts like nothing is wrong. She slaps on a fake smile and just goes on with her day. She hides it all. And that’s what hurt the most. She endures this all alone. But I don’t want her to be alone. I want her to know I’m here.

By the time I’m in the car, my eyes at watering. I set up my phone to the speakers and click “shuffle” on my playlist. First thing that plays just happens to be “Adam’s Song” by Blink-182. I pulled the car over and cried for a second, then pulled myself together. You can’t be the soft one who’s crying right now. She can’t be strong anymore, so you have to. I wiped the now cold tears off my cheeks and checked my self in the mirror. I get there really soon after I start driving again. We live relatively close. After taking a second look on the mirror, I decide to put on a thin coat of eyeliner. I hope she doesn’t think I’m weird.

When I got out of the car, I ran up to the door like instinct. I absentmindedly opened the door with out knocking. I walked quietly upstairs, just in case Char was still asleep. As I neared her door, I heard a sharp intake of breath. Terrified, I flipped the door open. Charlotte was sitting on her bed in the shorts and tank top she had on last night. She kept her head down, and was covering her mouth and nose in one hand. In the other hand… was a blade.
I stood there in the doorway for a minute, not moving at all. She looked up at me with sheer terror in her eyes. She was shaking, and blood was running down her thigh and spilling stains on her once floral sheet. She let out a soft whimper, like a puppy asking for a treat. The tears were still running down her rosy cheeks. I walked, practically ran, to her bed. She turned her head away from me, looking ashamed. “Don’t…don’t do that. Look at me, please.” I said in a soft voice. She turned around too fast for me to see her face, and buried herself into my chest. Her arms were wrapped around my abdomen tightly, and I could feel her short, shallow breaths. We laid there, for what seemed like hours, speechless. (But I’m not complaining.) The room was silent besides her uneven breathing and the tabletop fan that was going. The noise of the fan was relaxing. She slowly lifted off me, trembling. My shirt was soaked. For the first time since I got there, she looked me in the eyes. She quickly looked away again. I set my hand underneath the tip of her chin, pulling her face back up to mine. “Talk.” I said, a little more stern than I meant to. She was choking on her words, still struggling to find the right ones to say. “W-…what’s wrong with me?” She asked. “There’s nothing wrong with you, sweetheart.” I said back. She suddenly screamed “Then why am I like this?!” I stared at her in confusion. I stared at her adorable messy hair, her flushed cheeks. Her tear stained-red rimmed eyes and chapped, parted lips. I brushed back a strand of her hair behind her ear and said nothing. I didn’t know what to say.

•Charlotte’s P.O.V•

"W-…what’s wrong with me?" I asked. With complete sincerity, he replied back "There’s nothing wrong with you, sweetheart.” I felt a flash of anger rise up in me. I immediately screamed back at him “Then why am I like this?!” He didn’t say anything. He just stared at me in a sort of trance. My eyes were burning. He pushed back a small strand of hair out of my face. I knew he didn’t have the answer. No one had the answer. I just had to get that off my chest. It was a question I probably asked five times daily. He slowly opened his mouth, about to talk. “You’ve been strong for too long.” He said. There was a small break in his voice, like he was holding back tears. I felt the muscles in my face soften, and my eyes were burning worse. My arms felt limp. I suddenly felt so lifeless and weak. “I’m tired.” I said so quietly, I thought he didn’t hear me. He relaxed back against my headboard, and laid me down next to him. I snuggled into his arm. “I’m not usually like this. I promise.” I said. He looked confused. “I’m not like a slut or anything, I promise. I never do things like this. Please believe me.” I said. The tears were coming back up. The last part trailed off into an exhausted whisper. He looked down at me and kissed the top of my head. “I believe you.” He said.

Notes

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